Fellow Freak
by Anna Marcelli Palmer
Summary: You get nothing more than what you deserve.


It is three in the motherfucking morning and I am still thinking about you.

Typing and laughing my head off. _You!_ Instead of writing this pathetic hate letter, I could probably share my story with somebody else, but who the fuck would be brave enough to listen without drowning in the sheer absurdity of this mess? _Me_ not sleeping for several nights in a row, choking on smoldering hate and disappointment, but for the surreally unappealing _goddamned likes of you_.

I mean, _man_ , have you ever tried to actually _look_ in a mirror? You could cross-breed a tablecloth with a truck and get better results than that face. You could shave the fur off a rabbit's ass and it would overflow with charm in comparison. You could dive headfirst into a pool of cement and it would be considered an act of embellishment.

Vomit-inducing, gut-sickening, senseless, socially incapable, unthinking buffoon. You bloody stinking maggot.

Of course, all of this is merely a rehearsal of a play never destined to be staged. I am vicariously composing a confession of psychotic disgust, a mural of unhingement, gore, and unavoidable self-loathing. You are obviously not going to read any of this crap, which is probably for the best -it is an awfully undeserved honor for you, to be able to instigate anything more interesting than uncontrollable boredom.

Good God, what the hell is wrong inside my brain? When did it actually decide to start malfunctioning? This was never supposed to happen. None of it. You are -were- my friend. Friend as in _friendly_ friend. And before that, merely an aloof acquaintance, someone to simply put up with. Our worlds were radically different. Our mindsets clashed.

We were star-crossed since day one. But naturally, like the unfixable fool I am, I merrily looked past it and voluntarily threw myself into this pile of shit.

Geez you must be proud.

It was the most banal day possible, in the most unsuspicious of ways. I had just infiltrated Robotnik's base because my sensors had suggested there would be an emerald, walking like a cat past trap-riddled corridors, when _you_ happened. Seemed taciturn and cold-blooded enough for me to stand, had this impossibly ridiculous backstory. And you could be of use.

But then we worked beside one another, became comrades, had each other's back when the world was on fire. And you never asked questions, never annoyed me with silly preoccupations. Instead, you just accepted me as I were -a plain, imperfect, morbidly independent jewel thief trying to figure out what to do with her life. And in return, I convinced myself that your sullen etiquette was rather likeable, that you seemed so disoriented just because deep down you were damaged beyond repair.

Before I knew, you had become one of the surreally few people I legitimately gave a fuck about. When work was relatively cool, we would hang out at the Club for hours on end, drinking our brains numb, contemplating on all sorts of matters, asking one another impossible questions, laughing goofily at insane jokes we knew nobody else would appreciate. Of course, this was our shared secret- seemingly the only occasion where we could fearlessly be ourselves.

And, when you looked into my eyes, I deeply sensed you could understand me. _Me_. Not the sexy clothing me. Not the badass vigilante-gone-government-spy me. Not the shiny stuff dependent me. _Me_ , as in the overtly groomed insecure young woman that pretends to know the world because it would be scary as shit to do otherwise. I could be dressed like a dude, trudge like a gorilla, flinch like a goose, drone on about the jackasses I occasionally dated, and it would be fine, because we were supposedly friends and all of that was perfectly fine.

In retrospect, it was all about silly ole' me having someone to talk to. You just put up with me. Everything I said or did was okay only because there was nobody there to actually give a rat's ass. There was simply the defensive, arm-crossing, contact-avoiding shell of someone mentally absent. That blank facial expression, unmoving like a mountain, heartwarming like a cascade of puke.

But you felt _more close to me than anyone else in the world,_ yay!

...Oh, God. This is embarassing, both to type and to look at. Weird, really- how the words just seem to pour out of every pore, like an itching wound you cannot scratch, and yet it feels wrong, pointless, stupid, devastatingly unlike the old me. I keep stopping and looking apologetically at this blasted piece of paper, as if trying to convince that unforgiving pointing finger at the back of my skull that it is not mine.

Like I don't belong to my body anymore. As though I will look away and my heart will be magically separated from my brain.

Hilarious.

It would probably be for the better to just stop right now. Maybe if I throw myself on the mattress everything will look less freakish, and eventually fade away. But my fingers remain glued to the keyboard, mind flirting with the idea of another shot of nice, heartwarming Scotch. A glance at the bottle and I know it is time to make my blood flammable.

 _Hello, friend. Let us simply forget about the bastard and watch some fairies together._

Ah, well. This crap makes me lose train of thought. And of course, while I am busy being hysterical and paranoid, you are probably sleeping like a newborn, or even better, hanging out somewhere outside with your new victim. The mere possibility elicits a chuckle.

So, back on track. Having someone to talk to. Feeling like a legitimately respected being, the weirdo who finally finds another weirdo and belongs somewhere. Adventures. Dreams. The stupidity of people. Jesus you were good at your role of sounding like a tiny voice in my head. The loner, the bizarre, the outcast, the sentimental male one can count on. Let me pack you your Oscar, dude.

And I actually started dreaming of you. Us. Out of the blue, the _friendly friend as in a friendly friend_ had become a man, and nothing was to be the same. Me- a beautiful young woman anyone would crave for, an intelligent, cold-blooded professional, a naturally born biological entity and not some kind of gruesome experiment gone horribly wrong. I. Fell. For. You.

Magically, jewel hunting didn't seem too important anymore, the GUN were just a bunch of idiots, the world spun around at a different frequency. Every song sounded like yet another narration of our story. And whenever you looked into my eyes, life was simpler, because you see, for a tiny, stupid moment, all I worried about was whether or not you _liked me._

Did you? ... _Do_ you? Not that it makes any difference now. Not that, should I learn, your face will invoke less disgust. But, you know, maybe, just maybe, deep down this is all I'd ever wanted to hear. A reassurance that I don't feel like a train wreck twenty four hours a day, living on regret and sarcasm, for bloody nothing.

But I should have thought of that before, right? Well, with you being you and all.

And then, half a lifetime transpired in a matter of days. The ever -existing fear of a lover that should have been a friend. Lips mouthing blatant lies the eyes could not support.

I love you.

I love you not.

I miss you.

I miss you not.

"You are like family to me", you said once, and I nodded, not wanting to let it show, how it almost made me break. What is a family anyway? It is just a bunch of acquaiantances fate chooses for you.

And we shyly encased one another in a meek embrace, not knowing what to do with our sorry selves. And your heartbeat felt so real that my mind burst in flames.

It's almost four in the motherfucking morning and I'm still thinking about you. I hastily smash the empty bottle against the photograph-ridden wall of my bedroom, and it proves not to be so empty after all. Alcohol sprays all over the mural of our shared memories, and the ink flows downward, blurring away both our happy faces. Successful days at work. Exhilarating days off. Mundane adventures. All erased.

Let's help it a bit.

Hysterical laugher fills the apartment as I rip your face off my fucking house. And I rip mine too, wherever it contorts in funny faces and I know it is you holding the camera. I don't need anybody to be weird with, bitch. You can go drown in a pool of rotting crap.

This is for filling me with memories.  
This is for depraving me of them.  
This is for saying you can't imagine yourself being simply my friend.  
This is for not meaning it.  
This is for being a destroyed loner.  
This is for not being one beside me.

This, this, this, this, this and this. The wall is one big freakshow, and I freeze in my tracks, staring at my reflection through the mirror; a madwoman, screaming obscenities at scraped pieces of paper. My faded makeup oscillates through the double vision. Pathetic.

So much for putting a mask on my loneliness. Before all of this, it was just too easy, pretending to be some kind of badass chick who simply doesn't give a fuck and hangs out with just about anyone.

I could have just said: "Look at him. I just feel sorry for the poor fellow."

But instead I said: "I love you, Shadow the Hedgehog."

When we first kissed, it was the most awkward thing. You didn't know how to do it, I was consumed by an insatiable hunger. We couldn't decide where to put our arms, when to pull away, when to breathe. The bar had melted down to nothingness. I roamed your messy quills with trembling fingers, your palm rested on the exposed part of flesh just above my right breast, and left a stain of sweat there.

I can still feel it if I try.

 _"I can't imagine myself being in a relationship."_

I can still feel the smell of your breath in my nostrils.

" _Stop being such a bitch._ "

I can reproduce a map of all the scars on your arms.

 _"I don't know what's wrong with me, Rouge."_

I just cannot remember to forget.

 _"Just forget about it and leave me alone"._

 _._

 _._

 _._

 _._

 _._

 _._

I know perfectly what I replied to all of this bullshit, but I will merrily not recall it because, like you, I want to put the blame on others and keep on thinking happy thoughts. Isn't it nice? Me, you - imperfect, unfixable, damaged beyond repair and with an insatiable need to harm each other, bruise each other, hurt each other.

So I never spoke to you again. See, I actually bought all that shit. I thought it'd devastate you, because deep down I am an evil, unhappy, sorry little being.

And I hate you because you are fine.

And I detest you because I turned out not to be so special after all.

And I hate myself because all of this sounds so selfish -

\- but then again "you" weren't just about anyone. You were

my partner in crime

my colleague

my friend

my brother

my alter ego

my darker self.

You see, it hurts when you, the one who always "Humph"-ed when anything social was arranged, now merrily accept every invitation. Of course. Now I am off the picture. But it breaks my heart when I see you drool over that stupid pinkish whore, whose only talent is giggling as though she's been lobotomised.

Because you were supposed to be my fellow freak. And you're not. Never have been. Never will be.

Maybe I cannot understand. Of course I can't. Cracks appear just about anywhere. People don't break in the same places. We loved one another in the utterly paranoid way of two socially incapacitated people never destined to interact. On one hand I remind myself it is impossible to put the blame on anyone, but on the other I know you used me. For what, I 'll never know.

But you did.

Chuckle slightly, fidget in my position. I need a bloody cigarette, so I fumble in my pockets with trembling hands until I find one.

Bring the lighter to my lips, then something funny happens.

The wall. It is filled with destroyed images of me and you. Lies.

I hate that wall as much as I hate you.

I am virtually dying of laughter as I slowly trudge towards the mural, hanging onto furniture and home paraphernalia with my free hand. Unloving, uncaring, brainless, despicable bio-robot. You people-abusing faggot. I will fucking burn you, even if it fucking means burning the fucking house down.

I set the wall on fire and watch it as it paints itself black. It's exhilarating and purifying and peaceful. Pieces of paper curl around themselves, flutter like little butterflies and burst in small fireworks of homemade carbon. The flames dance around one another, licking the curtains, bringing the night to life. The room is singing and murmuring and seething.

Beautiful.

Coughing and tearing up, I enthusiastically raise a proud middle finger in your honor. Now it is clear that we were indeed created to cause one another harm -there is nobody else like you for me, dear.

By all means, ** _fuck you.  
_**


End file.
